Private Lives
by dhawthorne
Summary: Elizabeth Olivet and Mike Logan begin their tumultuous relationship with a counseling session after Logan's partner, Max Greevey, is shot and killed. As the weeks and months pass, their relationship evolves to something neither of them expected, with consequences they cannot ignore.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: In "Betrayal," a Season 18 episode of Law & Order, it is revealed that Dr. Elizabeth Olivet had an affair with a police officer she counseled after his partner was shot. Though the detective wasn't named, it was strongly implied that the detective was Mike Logan. Though their relationship ended at some point later episodes indicate they've maintained their friendship and affection for each other.

Disclaimer: I obviously own nothing.

* * *

'Doctor Olivet is ready for you now,' the receptionist says, and Mike Logan stands up abruptly, heading towards the open door and the slim brunette woman holding it open.

'Detective Logan? I'm Dr. Olivet,' she says, extending a long-fingered hand to shake his in a surprisingly competent grip. He shakes her hand quickly, his eyes taking in her figure, her shapely legs, her narrow waist, before meeting her blue eyes, cool and appraising. In her assessment of him, she notices the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, the tightness in his shoulders, the way his six-foot-something frame seems coiled tight as a spring. She releases his hand and closes the door, indicating a chair for him before she walks over to her own seat.

'So, Detective Logan,' she begins calmly, settling into her chair, legs crossed. 'You're here because-'

'Can you just bust my chops and get it over with?' he snaps.

She raises an eyebrow. She isn't surprised by his bad manners; indeed, she expects it, and she continues in the same calm voice. 'The purpose of this little get-together is emphatically not to "bust your chops," as you put it. It's to help you accept your partner's death-'

'I accept it,' he interrupts. 'Boom, he's dead, end of story.'

'Also, to help the officer in trouble reach a sense of closure…' she continues, still serene.

'All right. First of all, I'm not in trouble, okay? Matter of fact I'm alive and I'm on the case. Second of all, I'm Irish Catholic. I got a sense of closure at Max's wake.'

She leans back in her chair, regarding him curiously. 'Well then, there's no problem.'

'That's right. Can I go now?' he asks anxiously, shifting in his chair like a child eager to escape school.

Liz holds up her hands, gesturing to the door, and watches with a niggling sense of concern.

As he reaches the door, he turns back to her. With just a hint of his famous charm he says, 'Hey, listen, thanks a lot-but really, I'm fine.'

'Hey Detective,' she calls back. 'Ever hear of the seven stages of grief?'

'No,' he says.

'The first one's denial,' she tells him.

He looks at her coolly. 'I'm fine.'

She raises her eyebrows as he hightails it out of her office, slamming the door shut behind him.

As he's left ten minutes into their appointment she has ample time to take her notes and prepare her preliminary report for Captain Cragen. Detective Logan did behave far more coolly than his reputation suggests and she is surprised. She hasn't been working at the 27th Precinct for too long but she's already heard tell of his temper… and the legendary notches on his bedpost. She's had him pegged before she met him and when he slouched into her office, his eyes skimming her legs, she felt a small, smug surge of complacency at her accurate estimation of his character even as she fought back a blush. He was far handsomer than she'd noticed from afar if you like those Black Irish looks, with the dark hair and flashing hazel eyes...

He promises to be a difficult case. He is clearly reluctant to share anything at all and his attention can barely last the ten minutes of their abortive session. He's angry, that's certain, and uncomfortable at being sent to see her. This will be an uphill battle and for a long moment she wishes she declined this job. But she wants to help people, and if she can help Logan she deserves a medal.

She has a damn fine figure, he'll admit, but despite that she's emphatically not his type. He doesn't need a woman with all of those letters after her name, someone who could run rings around him, especially not when there's that hot blonde at his local bar. If he wasn't being forced to get his head shrunk then he'd definitely enjoy their meetings, sitting across from her with a prime view of her shapely legs. But he is being forced, and he hopes that these sessions pass just as quickly as this week's. He doesn't have the time to waste here; endless sessions with a shrink will only dredge up memories best kept quiet, and they certainly won't help him find Max's killer.

Two days after Logan's first appointment, one day after she submits her initial report, she returns to the 27 for an interview with Captain Cragen. She knocks on his office door.

'Come in!' he calls, and she pushes open the door.

'Doctor Olivet,' he says. 'Take a seat. Thanks for coming to see me.'

'Of course, Captain,' she replies, closing the door behind her, then sitting down in the chair in front of his desk.

'So, I read your report, but tell me-how did Mike's first session go? Can we take him off the desk?'

'He's in denial,' she says carefully. 'Of course I can't go into any details, but he hasn't yet accepted his partner's death.'

'It just happened, I don't expect him to get over it so quickly. They were partners for a long time. But do you think he'd do anything irrational, dangerous? Is he all right to go back in the field? We need to get these guys, Doc, and Mikey's our best chance.'

She weighs his words, thinks back to the preternaturally calm-at least for him-detective who visited her office. 'I think that you should be careful. I don't know Detective Logan well, but I've heard tell of his temper. He seems to be very calm and in control right now, motivated to find his partner's killer. He says he has closure.'

'In control… that's a first. Do you think he's lying?' Cragen asks her.

She pauses for a moment. 'I think that he wants to be over his partner's death-I think that he wants to bring Detective Greevey justice. Allowing him to do so might be the best way to help him past this.'

'Thanks, Doctor,' he says. She rises.

'I'll still need to see Detective Logan before I can sign off, you realize.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Even if he thinks that we're finished.'

'I'll tell him. Thanks again, Doc.'

She nods and walks out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Of course she underestimated Mike Logan's temper. Barely a week later he was back in her office and this time he was a completely different person than the man she'd met with last Wednesday. Where than man had been calm, this one was practically shaking with barely-suppressed anger. She'd heard what happened from both Ben Stone and Don Cragen-that Logan, after getting a lead from a member of the grand jury, had tracked down the man's son and held a gun to his head, demanding his confession. Of course it came out, and according to all accounts Logan wasn't remorseful, only upset that the confession and all the subsequent evidence-enough to convict the man-was tossed.

'How are you doing, Logan?' she asks when he barges his way into her office.

'You've heard what happened, I guess,' he says, looking up at her.

'I have, yes. But do you want to tell me about it?'

'No point,' he shrugs. 'I'm sure you've heard all there is to know.'

'I suppose I have. So Stone's holding you responsible for Magadan almost getting off. Do you think that's fair?' she asks.

'No, I don't. But I don't give a damn what he thinks.'

'That's not what I asked you.'

'It's not?' he responds, aggravated.

She shakes her head. 'What I'm asking is-do you feel it's a fair assessment?'

He leans forward, his eyes flashing dangerously. 'You mean, do I feel responsible for Max getting blown away? Maybe if I'd gone home with him, you know, maybe he wouldn't've gotten zipped. Maybe I should've just stepped in front of that bullet myself, right?'

She nods encouragingly, hoping that he'll continue, but he sags back in his chair.

'No,' he continues, and some of the fire in his voice has been quenched. 'I don't feel responsible. I feel incredibly… angry. That one of your seven stages?' he asks sarcastically.

She nods again, ignoring the sarcasm.

'Great.'

'It's a good thing, Logan,' she chides him gently. 'It means you're moving forward, one step closer to acceptance.'

He shrugs angrily. 'How'm ever going to accept Max's death if I can't do anything about it? Cragen's put me on a desk and I have to take vacation time-as if I could relax while Max's killer is on the loose. He did it and he's just walking around! Stone should've gotten the confession admitted. I didn't shoot the bastard, though I should've. That would've solved the problem.'

'You didn't shoot him because you know that would be wrong. You're not a murderer, Logan, even if you do want to kill that man.'

'I wish I could believe that, Doc,' he says with a glimmer of humor. 'But I suppose you know best.'

Well, she doesn't, and while she generally likes to maintain the air of mystique that seems to surround all psychologists-it amused her that people often treated her profession as akin to witchcraft-with him she is annoyed. 'You're smarter than that, Detective,' she says, allowing her calm facade to drop just the slightest amount. 'I'm just here to help you work through things on your own. You know yourself best, and I hope that you can see that your desire was motivated by a sense of justice and not a sense of revenge.'

He quirks his eyebrows up and looks at her levelly, not looking away even as she feels herself flush. The ticking of her grandmother's old clock on the mantel seems to slow as she returns his gaze.

'So you think I'm a good man, then, Doc?' he asks, and there is a note of flirtation in his voice. It frustrates and attracts her at the same time.

'It matters what you think,' she replies, a cop-out as she struggles to maintain her professional demeanor and control of the session. He continues looking at her, unsettling her, and she speaks again. 'I do know you're a good cop. That matters, too.'

'Does it?'

'Of course.'

He nods briskly, suddenly businesslike once again, as though she's confirmed something for him.

As they lapse into a not-quite-comfortable silence the clock on her mantel chimes the hour.

'That's our session, then,' she says in surprise, rising from her chair.

'I can see myself out,' he says, and nods to her. 'Thanks, Doc.'

She sits back down and watches as he leaves the room. This time, to her surprise, his thanks were genuine.


	2. Chapter 2

As the days pass and the trial ticks on, She watches his moods as closely as she watches the barometer when she sails. The wheels of justice grind slowly, she learns. Due to unforeseen luck-'the luck of the Irish, Doc, haven't you heard of it?'-Logan keeps his job and the case is salvaged due to some delayed search warrants and a bit of fast talking from the D.A.'s office.

Despite the case proceeding relatively smoothly at last, Logan is still stuck on the temp desk, filling out endless booking forms in triplicate while his new partner handles cases on his own.

'It's stupid,' he states bluntly in their fifth session. 'Make one mistake and I'm stuck doing work even a rookie could do. How'm I supposed to watch Phil's back when he's out there on his own and I'm filing papers? I caught the guy, didn't I? Even Robinette admitted that getting his confession saved the case. Otherwise we would've got the search warrants and might not've figured out who used the gun to shoot Max. This is damn stupid. When am I gonna be able get back to doing my job?'

'Do you feel ready to get back to work?' she asks.

'I'm good at what I do. I'm good at my job. It's not even just that I want to be back on the job, I need to be there. D'you get that? It's what I do, who I am.' He looks up at her, his expression serious. 'We haven't worked together, so you might not see-but despite the temper I am doing what I need to do.'

She's floored by his honesty, unprecedented in their sessions. She'd almost given up hope they would ever get past the endless snide remarks, the avoidance techniques, his anger.

'I want to do the right thing, Doc. Being on the job, catching the guys who hurt other people… it's important.'

'Did you always want to be a cop?' she asks when he stops speaking.

He shrugs. 'I suppose. Not much option out there for a guy of my background. Not like you… there never was a Ph.D. in my future; hell, there was barely even college. But to answer your question-I wanted to do good. I wanted to make things right. After-after everything, it was easier to see the path.'

'After what?' she questions softly, feeling obscurely guilty.

He shrugs again, stands up, and begins nosing around her office. He turns his back to her as he examines the mementos on her mantelpiece-the framed picture of her childhood home in Connecticut, a small alabaster vase from Egypt, a paper parasol from a college trip to Italy. They are symbols of her life, a life clearly utterly foreign to him. She waits patiently; the best lesson she ever learned was that so much of this profession is about listening, waiting.

'My mother,' he says at last. 'So what if it's an unoriginal problem, it's still one of mine.'

He stops again and she waits patiently for him to continue, noting his tense stance, his hunched shoulders, as though he's preparing for a blow.

'I used to have to buy her booze.' His words are deliberately flat, affectless. 'She was a good Catholic woman, my mother. Used to hold the bottle in one hand and her rosary in the other. And when the bottle was empty her other hand was used for something far more productive. Spare the rod and spoil the child-isn't that what they say?'

'Did she only hit you when she drank?' she asks quietly, shocked by his revelation. This is something she never suspected… but it explains a lot about him.

Still facing the mantel, he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. 'Yeah, I guess. But she drank a lot. It was easier to not be there.'

'And your father?'

'My dad… he was a good man. Couldn't help with her but oh well, not his fault. Worked hard. Tried to set a good example.'

He turns around, at last, to face her. She attempts to maintain her usual calm persona but fails as sympathy and pain on his behalf breaks through.

'Logan-'

'You asked,' he said, not accusingly. 'Anyway, I'm not one of your whackjobs, Olivet, so you can save the psychobabble for one of them.'

Though she recognizes his abrasive remarks as a defense mechanism, she feels a flutter of annoyance nonetheless. They were so close to making a real breakthrough before he simply shut down again and shifted the focus away from his painful memories.

'Okay,' she tells him soothingly.

'Look, I have a busy day ahead of me,all right? Stone's presenting closing arguments next Monday and I've got to go over stuff one more time with Robinette. So I'll see you next week?'

She nods. 'Have a good day, Detective.'

He flashes her a grin, an attempt to return everything to normal. 'You too, Doc.'

She sneaks into the courtroom to listen to Ben Stone's summation. It's stirring; she only hopes the jury is persuaded. She spies Mike sitting just behind the prosecution, sitting between Marie Greevey and her children, listening eagerly. After closing arguments the court is adjourned; she slips out before he can see her and makes her way to the DA's office.

'Can I help you, Liz?' Ben Stone says, seeing her lingering by the elevator.

'I just wanted to discuss my opinions on the Rossetti case, if you have a few minutes,' she tells Ben.

'Why don't you step into my office?' he suggests.

She nods and precedes him into his wood-paneled office, a cluttered, quiet haven in the bustle of the D.A.'s office. He closes the door behind them, shutting out the clamor.

'Take a seat. Would you like any coffee?' he offers.

'No, thank you, I'm fine,' she replies, perching in the chair next to his desk.

'So, about the Rossetti case-'

'Yes, I'll be conducting a second interview tomorrow at the precinct. I feel that he's hiding something… there's something else there.'

'Do you think he's not competent to stand trial?'

'No, I think he's perfectly competent-but there's another motivating factor there. He couldn't have come up with this robbery by himself. Have you taken a close look at the family?'

Stone shuffles through the papers on his desk and extracts the relevant file. 'Yes, we've interviewed them all. He hasn't even had contact with his parents for the past four years, and his brother's been in Attica for about that time, too.'

'Check the visitor's records. It's possible that Rossetti has kept in touch with his brother and is lying about it. I can't see another reason why a straight-A student felt the need to hold up a bodega.'

'Thanks, I'll have the cops on it tomorrow.' He closes the file and looks at her. 'I saw you at the closing arguments today.'

She shifts in her chair; though this is the reason she came, she is uncomfortable with Ben's perspicacity. 'Yes. They were very moving.'

'I hope the jury agrees.'

'Do you think they'll convict?'

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 'I hope so. I can't see why they wouldn't. It was a horrible crime.'

'Yes, it was.' She pauses, then asks, 'do you think it will take them long?'

'I hope not.'

She nods. 'All right. Thank you, Ben.'

'Of course, Liz.'

The verdict comes late that evening, and she is just leaving her office when someone knocks at her door. She is surprised but when she sees Mike Logan on the threshold she opens the door wide.

'Come in,' she says, and he steps silently into her office. Gone is the brash detective she's grown to know; here is a man who is grieving.

'Verdict came in. Life without parole,' he says, sitting down in his seat.

'I heard. The D.A.'s office called me,' she says. 'How do you feel?'

'It should feel better,' he says. 'It should feel good. He's in jail for the rest of his life and he'll rot in hell for what he did to Max.'

'Maybe life wasn't enough of a sentence,' she muses.

He shrugs. 'It's what the law allows. I can live with it. I know I went over the line, I… I was down on myself for awhile,' he admits, 'even though, you know, I tried to rationalize it. I have to find a way… to forgive myself.'

'Acceptance, Logan. That's the-' she prompts softly.

'Yeah. That's the last stage, right?'

She nods, smiling encouragingly.

'Max is dead,' he states, and she can hear the grief in his voice. 'I accept it. But I'll never accept it, you know?'

'I know,' she says. 'It's hard to get over a death. Often it never happens… but you're right, you have to learn to forgive yourself, you have to learn how to go on.'

'How?'

His voice is so bleak and he is in such pain that she wants to reach out and take his hand, tell him that everything will be all right.

She contents herself with tell him, 'one day at a time, Logan. One day at a time.'

He sighs, nods, and looks up at her. 'No magic mantra to make it stop hurting so much?' he asks with a shade of his old humor. 'No psychobabble you can spout to make it all go away?'

She shakes her head. 'I wish there was.'

'Well, it was worth a try,' he shrugs halfheartedly. 'Look, I should get going. It's been a long day.'

'Will you-will you be all right?' She hates herself for stumbling over such a simple question, despite its importance.

'Don't worry about me, Doc, I'll be fine,' he says seriously, sincerely. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'We don't have an appointment tomorrow,' she says in confusion.

'Well, you're working on the Vreeland case, right? Cragen pulled me off the temp desk this afternoon and just assigned it to me and Cerretta. He doesn't think Profaci can handle the big-time without a lot of handholding. To be fair, he's probably right.'

She laughs and hears the nervous tremor in her voice. 'Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then.'

'Great,' he says. 'See you tomorrow, Doc.'

'See you tomorrow, Detective.'

'Tell me, Detective, do they give you insensitivity training or are you naturally so charming?' she snaps, leaning back in one of the rickety interrogation room chairs.

'Well, Doc,' he shrugs arrogantly. 'What can I say? It takes a special kind of person to be a homicide detective.'

'Clearly,' she replies, watching him as he paces around the room.

What a change from the lost and grieving man in her office last night! She'd been given a glimpse of a deeply loyal, wounded man; a man who cared so much for his late partner it was hard to witness, even for her, she who is so used to eavesdropping on private grief.

'So what's your opinion, Dr. Olivet?' Phil Cerreta asks her, politely deferring to her knowledge.

'I don't think she was sane at the time of the murder. Her knowledge of the events is patchy; she may have had a dissociative episode.'

'That's just great,' Logan says.

'Do you have something to say, Detective?' she snaps, frustrated by the questioning of her expertise.

He stops walking and slams his hands down on the table, leaning forward until there's barely any space between them. 'Yeah, I do. You can't tell me you really believe that! She hid her identity and covered her tracks after nearly stabbing her boyfriend to death!'

'Yes, but in her mind she was protecting herself. He'd already put her in the hospital once this month; she was scared!'

'Then why didn't she admit it? I've worked enough battered women cases before, Doc, and that's how it goes.'

'Not always.'

'Almost always.'

They glare at each other and she feels her pulse speed up as she looks at him, his eyes dark and sparking with anger. Is it suddenly hot and airless in the room or is it just her? He is vibrantly alive and thrumming with energy and she bites her lip to fight back her sudden attraction to him.

'Will you meet with her again, Doctor, after she's been at Riker's for a few days? If it's an act some time there might rattle her,' Phil suggests.

She tears her gaze away from Logan and looks at Phil.

'I'll do that. Thank you for the excellent compromise, Detective.' She stand up, pushing the chair back from the table. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment.'

She leaves the interrogation room, nodding to a few familiar officers as she walks through the precinct. Her car is parked around the corner, and just as she reaches her door a hand reaches out and grabs her by the elbow. She whirls around to face the person who grabbed her; when she sees him, she lets out a sigh of relief and sags against her car.

'Logan!' she gasps, heart in her throat. 'What on earth are you doing?'

'I wanted to apologize, Doc. It was wrong on me to go off like that. Look, I didn't mean to make you angry-this is the first case you're working with me, and I don't want to start off on a bad foot.' He pauses. 'Despite myself, you were a great help after…'

'That's all right,' she says, her heart still pounding as she looks up at him. She hadn't before realized quite how tall he was…

'Just wanted to make sure there were no bad feelings,' he says, then grins down at her. Surely it's a reaction from the fright he gave her but her knees feel a bit shaky.

'Well, that is a surprise,' she says. 'Did Cerreta send you out after me?'

'Didn't think someone raised like me had manners?' he replies good-naturedly, different again from the man in the interrogation room.

'I suppose I just didn't think if you were wrong you'd ever admit it.'

'Well, now-I'm not admitting I was wrong,' he grins. 'But this is on my own accord.'

She doesn't know how to respond. 'Listen, Logan-I'm going to be late.'

He holds up his hands in mock defeat. 'All right, all right. See you.'

She nods and slides into her car, watching him as he walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

As the weeks pass and spring changes into summer, she finds it harder and harder to distinguish between the two Mike Logans she now knows-Logan-as-Detective and Logan-as-Patient. She still sees the latter once every two weeks for his sessions but she also is a colleague and one who now works closely with the former. He has two distinct, though not to say divergent, personas. Logan-as-Detective is sharp, funny, loyal, impatient, and dedicated, with a roving eye that prompts exasperated but good-natured comments from his new partner, Phil Cerreta, or "Big Daddy" as Logan refers to him. But Logan-as-Patient is a different being altogether. Though he's slowly worked to assuage his anger over his late partner's senseless death, he is reluctant, after those few brief moments of sharing, to tell her anything without her cajoling, prompting, or out-and-out questioning.

They've now established a good working relationship after that first misstep. They are sparring partners outside of their sessions; she tosses back rejoinders to his smug, opinionated comments, his surprisingly sharp wit. She didn't expect that of him. She expected he would be less developed than the stereotypical womanizing Man she studied both in her textbooks and firsthand… he surprised her, and even after the first shock of discovery-that he was not, in fact, as one-dimensional as he appeared-he continued to reveal new facets to his personality. After that first altercation, Logan invited her, offhand and gruffly, to join them for lunch after her interview. When she looked at him in astonishment, he looked at her, grinned, and said, 'I figure even women with triple-digit IQs gotta eat, Doc.'

When advising on a case she often joins Logan and Cerreta for coffee or a meal after her interviews; she shares her opinions with them in restaurants instead of the squad room. Things grow easier; they work well together, to her surprise. Cerreta, she knew, was a good cop, but Logan is, as he had claimed, very good indeed at what he does.

That's not to say he doesn't frustrate her. When she is involved in interviewing a psychotic homeless man, Logan looks upon him with contempt. She understands his feelings-they are human universals, the distaste and disgust for the mad, the dirty, the unknown-and she feels a flicker of disgust herself when the man leans under the table in an attempt to look up her skirt.

'There is honor among these people, you know,' she says, catching his eye. For a long moment they look at each other and something passes between them, but then he looks away.

In July Logan rings her up and asks her to come to the precinct to talk to a witness. She agrees, though he gives her only the basic outline of the witness's profile: a highly-strung woman in her late thirties, possible witness to a murder when she was a child, estranged from her parents. She arrives at the precinct later that afternoon and finds Logan.

'Is she in the interrogation room?' she asks him.

He stands up, shuffling his feet as he approaches her. Phil Cerreta walks through the door with a cup of coffee in his hand and stands between them, listening. 'Well… the thing is, Doc, I was kinda hoping you'd get in touch with her. She hasn't… well, she hasn't agreed to talk with us. I was hopin' that you'd contact her, persuade her to talk to you or us.'

'Me? I can't contact her. It's improper,' she replies, a bit shocked he would ask this of her-not only for its impropriety but also that he of the staunch opinion that what she did was ineffective witchcraft would be willing to recommend psychiatric help.

'We pushed her, it didn't work!'

'It's not only improper, it's ineffective. The woman has to trust me.'

'I'll tell you something,' Cerreta begins, 'if we don't get Conover, we can bury those bones and this case along with it.'

Before she can reply, a cop wanders in. 'Hey, Logan, woman asking for you.' He jerks his thumb behind him to the lobby. Logan follows him, while she refrains from rolling her eyes. Probably yet another one of the women who couldn't resist Detective Logan's charm-they seemed to exist in droves.

A moment later he returns, trailing a woman who is emphatically not his usual type-she is petite, brunette, and haunted, and wrapped tightly in an enormous wooly cardigan. 'There's someone I'd like you to meet,' he says. 'Ms. Atkinson, this is Dr. Olivet. She's a police department psychiatrist.'

She shoots him a curious look and he nods almost imperceptibly. So this is the woman who they were discussing… she extends a hand. 'Hi.'

'Hi,' Ms. Atkinson replies.

'Would you like to talk?' she suggests, and Ms. Atkinson nods, following her as she leads the way to the interrogation room.

When the finish the session two hours later, she walks Julie out of the precinct, gives her her card, and assures her she is always there to talk to her. She reenters the precinct after seeing Julie into a cab. Cerreta takes one look at her and insists on taking her to lunch at an Italian place four blocks down from the precinct-'It has the best manicotti in Harlem, you won't regret it!' She agrees, exhausted from a difficult session.

'So how'd it go? What'd you find out?' Logan bursts out, barely able to wait until they've ordered to ask his questions.

'For the first hour she didn't even remember seeing the boy,' she tells them.

'What about Conover?' Logan asks.

'Nothing. She has this recurrent image-red and blue. She came back to it twice, but doesn't know what it means.'

'What was the Keegan kid wearing?' Cerreta interjects.

'Green shirt, khakis, black sneakers,' Logan replies after a moment's thought.

'How screwed up is she?' Cerreta asks.

'I'd say severely,' she replies gravely.

Logan asks incredulously, 'and she says she never saw a shrink?'

She shrugs. 'She also said she's basically a happy person.'

'What about hypnosis?' Cerreta suggests.

'Unreliable. And almost impossible to get admitted in court,' she tells him.

'Well, not if she doesn't implicate herself,' he replies. 'If she gives us a lead and we corroborate it, we don't need her in court.'

'Yeah, but if we put her under, and then we end up needing her we'll never get her on the stand,' Logan retorts. 'She coming back?' he addresses her, but avoids her eyes.

'We opened a vein. She might want to close it.'

'Maybe, maybe, maybe,' he mocks her gently.

She looks at him and replies sharply. 'My feeling: she wants to know. Any idea what this red and blue is?'

'Your guess is as good as mine,' Cerreta tells her as their lunch arrives.

'Something that might help-' she says after fifteen minutes of silence while they eat. 'We could try a walkthrough of that day. Take her through, step-by-step, starting with what she remembers. It could help awaken old memories.'

'How likely is it?' Logan asks. 'We might be wastin' a whole afternoon on something that gets us nowhere.'

'Recovering repressed memories isn't an exact science. If it was, my job would be a lot easier,' she tells him, fighting and failing to hide a note of frustration in her tone.

'All right, all right,' he says, holding up his hands. 'We'll do it.'

A week later, after two additional sessions with Julie (she returned to her office after that lunch to a message from her, saying she wanted to continue therapy), they spend the afternoon walking through the thirty-year-old routine of a schoolgirl.

She is shaken by Julie's memories; though she has read many studies on awakening memories stored in the subconscious, she has never before tried to dredge up such memories herself. She is floored by her success but disturbed by the memories. It's clear that Logan and Cerreta are disturbed too, though to a lesser extent as they do not quite realize how unlikely this result was.

'I'll go back to the station, write up the report,' she hears Cerreta say as she comforts Julie. 'Mikey, will you and the doctor bring Julie back to her apartment? It's been a long day for all of us and you deserve a break.'

She doesn't hear Logan respond, though a few minutes later the door closes. She looks up; Cerreta is gone but Logan is still there.

'D'you think you'll be all right if we can get you back to your apartment?' he asks the shaking woman.

'Yes,' Julie tells him. 'I'll be all right when I'm home.'

'Good,' he replies. 'D'you want to walk or take a cab? Phil's taken the car,' he explains when she shoots him a curious glance.

'Let's walk. I could use the fresh air, I think.'

He nods, then leads the way down the stairs. Despite the heat of the July day, Julie is still shivering. Liz wraps her arm around her shoulders and Julie leans in to her. Logan, walking slightly ahead of them, looks back constantly and tries to engage Julie in a lighthearted conversation. As they walk back to Julie's building on Central Park West, she gradually relaxes, almost laughing just as they turn the corner to her apartment.

She is surprised once more by him. He is easy and gentle with her, cajoling her, entertaining her, doing a wonderful job at keeping her mind off the horrific memories she's just uncovered.

'We'll walk you up to your apartment,' Logan says easily, drawing Julie's arm through his as they pass through the lobby. She follows them into the elevator and watches as Julie unlocks the door with hands that tremble only a little.

'Do you want some company?' she asks.

'I'll be fine,' Julie says with a small smile. 'Thank you. I think I just need to sleep.'

Logan nods. 'Give us a call if you need anything. You have my number, and Dr. Olivet's as well.'

'I will. Thank you both.'

'Of course, Julie,' she replies. 'We'll talk soon, and I'll see you on Monday.'

She nods and then watches them as they walk away.

'Well, that about wraps it up for the day, I guess. How about we go for an ice cream?' he suggests when they step into the elevator.

She almost laughs in his face. 'An ice cream, Logan?'

'Why not?' he says, gruffly embarrassed. 'It's a Friday in July and it's hot.'

'Surely you have something better to do than get an ice cream with the department shrink.'

He looks down, flushing red.

'What's the matter, Logan? Someone stand you up?'

'So what if they did?'

She raises an eyebrow. 'I never thought I'd see the day.'

'Forget about it.' He turns away angrily, difficult to do in such an enclosed space.

'No, wait,' she says, feeling guilty as the doors open into the lobby. 'Let's go.'

'Okay, then,' he says. She feels an immediate sense of relief that she's agreed to an ice cream when they step out of the air-conditioned marble lobby into the face-slapping heat of the city. She groans quietly as a wave of heat hits her and she turns to look at him.

'I bet we could find an ice cream truck around the corner,' she suggests and he nods.

'Good idea-I don't think I could walk far in this heat, and somehow Mr. Softee sounds like it'll hit the spot right about now.'

She laughs at him and they slide into a comfortable silence as they make their way down Central Park West towards the Museum of Natural History. They find one two blocks away and place their orders.

'That'll be $4.50,' the ice-cream man says.

'I'll get it,' she offers.

'I can afford to buy you an ice cream, even on a detective's salary,' he states ungraciously.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes at this show of machismo and accepts her ice-cream cone.

'So, Logan, tell me-who's the unlucky lady who stood you up tonight? And why'd you invite me in her place? You can't tell me that you'd rather spend the evening with me than picking up some hot blonde in a bar somewhere.'

He flushes bright red and takes a bite out of his ice cream cone.

'I didn't feel like spending my birthday the same way I spend every other Friday,' he mumbles.

'It's your birthday?' she says in shock.

'Is that so surprising?'

'I suppose I never thought of it… you always seem to me like you sprung into existence fully formed.'

'I'm not quite Athena, Olivet.' Noting her surprise at the reference, he says, 'I did learn mythology in school, Catholic or not. One of the nuns had a positive passion for Odysseus.'

She flushes from embarrassment, from the assumption he would not be educated enough to catch her reference. 'Well, we should go to dinner, then,' she hears herself say. 'To celebrate.'

'You really want to spend your Friday night with a detective? Surely you have something better to do,' he turns her statement around on her.

'I'll make my own decisions on how I spend my Friday night,' she states boldly, feeling for some odd reason that a definitive stance is called for. 'Let's go.'


	4. Chapter 4

She takes him to Melon's. It's a place where he will feel comfortable, she hopes-long wooden bar, sticky tabletops, burgers, a jukebox, and bartenders who don't give a damn who you are.

He takes off his jacket and slings it on the coatrack near the door, then loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves with a sigh of relief. She follows suit, shrugging out of her suit jacket, revealing her sleeveless white silk blouse. She runs her fingers through her hair so that the auburn locks fall loose about her face, and she echoes his sigh.

'That's better,' he says, grinning at her. 'Feels like work is finally over.'

She laughs, feeling loose and relaxed and for once not disconcerted and off-balance from his presence. After the stress and dramatic revelations of the afternoon, the evening suddenly has that first-day-of-vacation feeling, the heavy burden of Julie Atkinson's recovered memories lifted aways as though they never witnessed it.

'What can I get ya?' the bartender asks, slapping down two cocktail napkins.

'A Guinness,' Logan says. 'Liz?'

It's the first time he says her name and she blushes involuntarily and furiously. 'A G&T, please.'

He gives her his trademark lopsided grin, then repeats her order the bartender. Almost immediately their drinks arrive and she raises her cocktail to him.

'Happy birthday… Mike,' she says, looking straight into his eyes, which soften.

'Thank you,' he replies, and touches her glass with his. He takes a deep swallow of his stout and then leans back in his chair with a sigh of contentment.

'So tell me,' he says, 'how does a lady like you know a place like this? Never would've pegged you for someone who frequented my sort of bar.'

'Well, there's a lot you don't know about me,' she says almost flirtatiously, flushing as the gin hits her, creating a spreading warmth in her stomach. 'I grew up around the corner-in the apartment where I live now. I used to come here with my parents on weekends and then when I was in high school and college my friends and I would grab burgers here in the early hours after long nights at Dorrian's.'

He laughs. 'Somehow I can't picture you out late at a bar, Doc, even if it was Dorrian's. Tell me more about your wild and misspent youth-did you take shots and dance on tables?'

She takes another sip of her G&T and he leans forward, his knees brushing against hers for a moment. It's easy, for a moment, to forget who he is-her patient, her colleague-and just enjoy the company of a very attractive man. She sets down her drink deliberately, looks into his dark, dark eyes, and says, 'well-a lady never reveals her secrets.'

His face falls and she giggles, taking another swig of her drink.

'Can I get you another one?' he asks, but does not wait for her response, signalling the bartender for another drink. He orders a whiskey for himself and when their drinks come this time he holds his glass up to her. 'To misspent youths,' he says.

'Come now, Detective, surely you're not in your dotage yet.'

'Not quite yet,' he admits, flashing her a grin. 'Plenty of life in this old dog still.'

She feels a rush of annoyance with his predictable slide back into character, frustrated that she's forgotten herself so much as to enjoy his company, to even flirt with him a little. But before she can say anything the bartender is back again, taking their orders for dinner, and when she turns back to him he's smiling at her gently.

'So have you always lived in the city, then?' he asks, a fresh drink in front of both of them.

She mentally shrugs off her annoyance; he has proven, after all, that he can conduct a relatively normal conversation without openly making passes at her. 'We always had an apartment here but we lived most of the time in Rowayton. I always loved the city, though, and was happy when my parents decided to relocate here full-time when I started high school.' She looks at him as she finishes her brief explanation and sees the blank, uncomprehending look in his eyes that often appears when she uses technical jargon on a case. Looking back at her words she realizes consciously, for the first time, the stark difference in their upbringings. She always knew she was lucky-she went to the best schools, traveled, had loving parents, never had to worry about money-but here in front of her is a man for whom her life is as utterly foreign to him as his is to her. She's never had to face that realization before with anyone. With her patients, she always maintained an appropriate distance; when she started working with the 27th Precinct her entire experience was so strange to her that everyday divides such as these never occurred to her.

'Excuse me for a moment,' she says, standing up abruptly. 'I'm just going to use the bathroom.'

She doesn't wait for a response but flees to the women's room in the back of the restaurant. Standing at the sink, she runs cold water over her wrists in a desperate attempt to relax herself. She is embarrassed, desperately so, and she can't quite figure out why. She didn't mean to be that person, the snobby Upper East Side shrink he obviously thinks she is. She is not that person; he is wrong about her if he thinks that, but then perhaps she is wrong about him, too. They each present an appearance to the world but perhaps-just perhaps-that was all it was. After all, in their sessions she's caught glimpses of the man he could be beneath the surface… a hurt, emotionally scarred man, a loyal and compassionate man, a man who could be a friend-a man who deserved more from her than her sneering.

She takes a deep breath and walks out of the bathroom, though she stops at the corner of the bar before she returns to her seat. He's sitting there, joking and laughing with a man and woman sitting next to them at the bar. Their food is in front of him but he hasn't yet started to eat; he is simply enjoying the evening. He looks up suddenly, sees her, and smiles; she finds herself returning his smile, drawn to him, his vitality, as she always has been. When she comes back, he stands up to pull out her chair, his hand brushing her back for just a moment longer than necessary as she takes her seat.

'Liz, this is Joe and Renee. Joe and I were in the same class at the Academy.'

'It's a pleasure to meet you,' she says, shaking their hands.

'Can't believe we found ol' Mikey here at this bar!' Joe exclaimed. 'Haven't seen him in years and then, just like that, here he is. Let's see, last time I saw you…' he trails off, looking at Mike, then laughs. 'Oh, yes, last time I saw you you got an assignment to the Mounted Division for mouthin' off at the Sergeant.'

'Oh, Lord,' Mike says, covering his eyes with his hand. 'You better get me another drink if you're going to embarrass me like this!'

She looks over at Mike and is surprised to see that he's flushed red. He quirks a grin at her and shrugs his shoulders before accepting another drink from Joe. 'I didn't know you were in the Mounted Division,' she says, quietly amused, as Joe takes a sip of his beer.

'Wasn't in it for long!' Joe laughs. 'Third day on assignment, Mikey doesn't tighten the girth, slides off the horse in the middle of patrol!'

'Yeah, well, at least I didn't fly head-first over my horse when yours decided to stop and investigate a pretzel on the ground,' Mike rejoins.

'They've always been like this,' Renee leans over to confide in Liz. 'Always trying to embarrass each other.'

'Hey, now, Renee-someone's gotta put him in his place!' Joe says with a roar of laughter. Renee rolls her eyes at Liz with a smile, and she feels suddenly uncomfortable herself. She knows they think that she and Mike are dating but she doesn't know how to dissuade them of their mistaken impression. Before she has to come up with a way to explain that they are not actually together, the man taking table assignments hollers their name.

'That's us-don't let it go too long next time, hey, Mikey?' Joe says, clapping him on the back, 'Nice to meet you, Liz-keep Mike in line!'

'Nice to meet you,' she replies, ignoring Joe's comment and the feel of Mike's eyes on her.

He picks up his burger and takes a bite, watching her closely. She looks away and takes a bite of her own burger, looking anywhere but at him.

'Sorry about that,' he says carefully. 'Joe never did learn how to keep his mouth shut.'

She is relieved he does not apologize for their mistaken impression. Looking over at him, she grins, saying, 'I wouldn't have missed hearing about your brief career in the Mounted Division for anything.'

'Don't go mentioning that to Phil, now-he'll never let me live it down!'

She says, 'Well, I suppose I won't.'

'You suppose?' he drawls, raising an eyebrow.

'Well, I won't if you'll get me another drink.'

He laughs. 'Deal.'

Too many drinks later she finds herself staring into his eyes, another nearly-empty G&T in her hand as her knees brush against his. Dinner is long over but here they are, still. She hasn't done this in so long… lost track of time, whiled away the hours with a beautifully attractive man… If he wasn't her patient, her colleague, she could indulge in something, get him out of her system. If they'd met here, at a bar, she would have let him buy her a drink, kiss her in the street, walk her home… with everything that implied. Well, she's let him buy her a drink already… She couldn't have a relationship with him, even if she wanted one, but she was physically and viscerally attracted to him, and this was a problem.

'I suppose we ought to be going,' she forces herself to say, albeit with much reluctance. 'It must be late.'

He takes her hand in his and looks at the watch, then laughs. 'I think I've had too much to drink to read this upside down,' he admits, though he doesn't release her hand. She fights back a shiver as she peers down at the watch face, the numbers swimming slightly as she tries to focus in the dim light.

'It's 12:30,' she says with a jolt of surprise. 'I should be going.'

'I'll walk you home,' he says, his hand resting on her knee for a moment as he rises from his seat. He is a bit unsteady as he fumbles for his wallet, rejecting her offers to settle the bill with better grace this time. When she gets up she finds herself weak-kneed and reaches out for him. He takes her arm and tucks it comfortably beneath his; she leans into him, grateful for his warm, solid support.

'Thank you,' she calls over her shoulder to the bartender as Mike gently propels her to the exit.

'I haven't done that in years,' she giggles, feeling the effects of the gin far more strongly as they step out into the hot city night. 'I'd forgotten how much fun it is.'

'Sometimes you just need a night like this,' he agrees, nodding with mock seriousness. 'Now, where's your apartment?'

'Seventy-Sixth and Park,' she says.

'Very nice,' he says, starting to walk up Third Avenue. 'Much nicer address than mine.'

'I like it,' she admits. 'Used to belong to my parents, but it's mine now. They gave it to me when I finished college. Not convenient for the precinct, though.'

He laughs. 'An apartment! When I left home my parents gave me a new set of sheets for a bed I couldn't afford. Took me three months to save up for a mattress and boxspring.'

'Oh Mike,' she says, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.

'Don't worry-I was highly motivated to save up enough money,' he laughs, and for once she too laughs at his innuendo.

'Well, here we are,' she says, stopping outside the side door of her building. She's reluctant to walk through the lobby at this time of night, intoxicated as she is. She leans against the wall as she scrabbles through her purse for her keys.

'Can I walk you to your door?' he asks, suddenly so close to her. She looks up at him-he is so tall, she thinks-and nods.

She feels his presence at her back as they wait for the elevator; when she presses the button for the eighth floor he is even closer, his breath against her neck. Maybe it's the gin, or the scent of him-cedar and leather and just the faintest hint of whiskey-but her knees go weak. She wants him; it's as though he flicked a switch, turned her on.

'Mike-' she says, turning to face him, but the door opens before she can say anything more. HIs hand, now on her hip, urges her forward, and when they reach her door she struggles to fit the keys in the lock.

'Let me,' he says, taking the keys out of her hand. He is still standing behind her, one hand sliding around her waist, pulling her against him as he unlocks the door.

'Mike-' she says again, pulling free from his embrace and turning to look up at him.

'If I kiss you, will you regret it in the morning?' he asks, resting one hand against the doorjamb.

Her eyes drop to his lips, imagining what a kiss from him would feel like… her mouth goes suddenly dry. 'I won't regret it,' she replies, 'but shouldn't I ask you that question? I can't imagine I'm your usual type.'

He reaches up to cup her cheek in his hand, his thumb running along her lower lip. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

'No, you're not,' he whispers. 'You're much, much better.'

She steps backwards into her apartment and he follows her, closing the door gently behind him. He is barely a step away from her and she can feel the heat from his body.

'I've wanted you from the minute I saw you,' he continues, closing the gap between them, wrapping his arms around her waist, 'across the squad room in the precinct, even before Max… and then afterwards, looking at you, watching you during our sessions… Jesus, Liz, you could drive a man crazy.'

She looks up at him, utterly captivated by his voice, his dark eyes looking down at her. She doesn't believe in the powers of hypnosis but surely she is hypnotized now… she cannot look away.

She wraps her arms around his neck. Take what you want and pay for it, says God, she thinks crazily, giddily… recklessly. And-heaven help her-she wants him.

She wakes up at five in the morning exhausted, hot, and with a pounding headache. His arm is around her waist, warm and heavy, but she slips out of bed without disturbing him to pad silently, still undressed, through the hallway to her kitchen. It is cooler than her bedroom, and she opens the fridge to let some cold air escape as she pours herself a glass of water.

Despite her bold claims to the contrary last night she is hit only now with the enormity of her actions. She slept with a patient. It didn't particularly matter that he wasn't a patient on his own accord, he was still a patient and she had a responsibility to him, to help him, not to take advantage of him. So many psychiatrists had fantasies about their patients, but she never thought that would be her, she never thought that if it was she'd act on it.

She covers her eyes with her hands in a vain attempt to block out the thoughts running through her head. What would she do? Of course she had to end their doctor-patient relationship, but what would happen next? Presumably they were both adult enough to behave professionally around each other at the precinct. Hopefully that would be that, and they could move on as though nothing like this had happened.

But it had happened; oh, it had happened, and she wanted it to happen again.

'Liz?'

She jumps as he says her name, startled by his sudden appearance. Her face flames as she realizes she hadn't bothered to grab her robe before she walked into the kitchen, and she jumps behind the fridge door before she thinks. He laughs gently and her face flushes in embarrassment.

'I was just getting some water,' she explains lamely, holding up the glass in her hand. 'Would you like any?'

'Thanks,' he replies. 'I can get it-where are the glasses?'

She points mutely to the cabinet above the sink and he reaches up get a glass, filling it from the sink. She watches him, noting his muscular legs and back, the surprising grace in his movements. He, at least, put on his boxers to venture into the kitchen-plaid, of course-and thus has the advantage over her.

He finishes his glass of water and refills it, then turns to look at her. 'You all right?'

Now or never, she thinks, I must be sensible. She takes a deep breath, looking away from him. 'Look, Logan-what we did-it was wrong.' He doesn't respond right away and she chances a glance at him.

He quirks an eyebrow at her. 'Wrong? Tell me, Doc, what about that was wrong?'

'That's just it-I'm your doctor, your psychiatrist. We can't do this.'

He shrugs. 'Of course we can. You're not the only shrink on the department payroll. Transfer my case. Problem solved.'

'The conflict of interest is already there-'

'Why? Because you were my shrink or because we work together?'

'Both, but especially because we work together. Logan-'

He's getting angry now. 'And why is it "Logan" all of a sudden?' he asks, slamming the glass down on the counter. 'C'mon, Liz, be honest-you're regretting sleeping with me, regretting getting involved with someone like me-after all, there is a huge gap between your Park Avenue life and mine-Yorkville is what, twenty blocks away? and it's a completely different world. So yeah, I can see why you wouldn't want to waste time on me.'

'That's rich,' she spits, angry herself. 'Are you just turning this around on me so you can swan off and not feel guilty for having a one-night stand with a colleague? You're the one who runs through swathes of women, Detective.' She can hear the jealousy in her voice and she feels ridiculous, standing here naked in her kitchen, engaged in an argument with a man who made her pulse race, her knees weak, for whom all the traditional rules of attraction applied...

She takes a deep breath and tries to speak calmly. 'Look, we work together. We had a good meal and great sex… and we can leave it at that, can't we? No strings. I'll transfer your case first thing Monday and we can just go on being colleagues.'

'I don't want that. I told you I wanted you from the minute I saw you,' he says, stepping closer to her, his voice softening.

'It's a common phenomena-it's called transference. When a patient becomes attracted to his psychiatrist…' she says, voice shaking slightly as she thinks what, exactly, she's done. Her career! Her years of study, of helping people, potentially gone after this… and for what? A man more interested in filling his little black book than a relationship, someone who she would never bring home to meet her parents, a detective she works with, someone she's not even sure she wants to be with...

'The first time I saw you,' he interrupts her. 'Before you were my psychiatrist. Before I knew who you were. Don't give me the mumbo-jumbo, Liz. If you want this to be it, tell me straight. No matter the differences between us, I deserve that-we deserve that.'

'You can't tell me that you want a relationship,' she scoffs weakly.

'You haven't told me you want anything either. But I don't just want this. I'd like to see where this goes.'

He takes the glass out of her hand, sets it down deliberately on the counter, then closes the refrigerator door. He looks her straight in the eyes and says, 'Jesus, Liz-I might not have a Ph.D. but you can't think I'd be stupid enough to let you get away.'

She feels herself weakening but she won't give up, give in, without a fight-not to him. She won't be another woman who melts at his feet with a little application of his famous charisma. 'Ah, here's the famous Irish charm. Tell me, Detective, what age were you when you kissed the Blarney Stone?' she sneers gently.

He takes her in his arms and laughs; she can feel the vibrations all through her body. The storm has passed, she thinks, and she rests her head against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart.

'Well, I have to tell you-I'm not interested in kissing the Blarney Stone right about now,' he tells her, and she can hear the smile in his voice. 'Just you. Come back to bed. It's too early to be awake.'


End file.
